Category: Drink

Trinidad Sour

It’s easy to fall into a rut.

Ruts are comforting. They provide predictability and structure in a chaotic world with too many unwelcome surprises.

So it’s easy — for me, at any rate — to fall back on simple utility cocktails, made from three ingredients; four if you count ice. Some sort of spirit, something sour, and something sweet — this is the basic structure of a daiquiri, a gimlet, a margarita or a sour.

But a rut — no matter how comforting — can close you off from new possibilities. In this case, the mind-expanding novelty is using Angostura bitters as the main alcohol. Normally bitters are used — extremely sparingly — bring a bitter flavor to help balance out an otherwise sweet drink. Most of them, though, are suspended in a base that averages around 45 percent alcohol, or 90 proof. So, there is no reason why you couldn’t drink them in more substantial amounts.

1½ ounces Angostura bitters – you will probably want to use a knife to pry off the plastic cap that limits you to a dash of bitters at a time, or you’ll spend the next 15 minutes shaking your wrist to fill a jigger

½ ounce rye whiskey

¾ ounce fresh squeezed lemon juice

1 ounce orgeat – this is a sweet almond syrup, usually used in tropical drink; here it is used to balance out the bitter herbiness from the bitters

Combine all ingredients with ice in a cocktail shaker.

Shake it. At this point, you know how to do this.

Strain into a coupé or Nick & Nora glass.

Ask your digital assistant to play “Pressure Drop” by Toots and the Maytals.

Spend the next two and a half cocktails trying to identify what it is you’re tasting.

Probably the least useful word to describe this particular drink is “delicious.” It is actually delicious in fact — that’s not the issue. There’s a sweet, sherry-like, almost raisiny flavor that isn’t actually all that much like raisins or sherry. There’s a sweetness in the front end, but a bitter aftertaste that is nothing like dark chocolate or anything else you would call “bittersweet.” There are herbal notes from the Angostura — but not mint or rosemary, or any herb that you’re probably familiar with. You can try reading the label, but the Angostura Co. has kept their ingredients secret for over 200 years with the kind of secrecy usually reserved for nuclear codes.

So what are we left with?

Bittersweet fruitiness with herbs and the tiniest bit of rye in the background. This is the kind of cocktail you would drink with — OK, I don’t know what the day-to-day life of a monastic abbot is, but if he gets any vacation time and were to take a holiday in the Caribbean, this is what he would drink, wearing sandals, and a tropical shirt covered with pictures of little monks on it.

He would have checked into the hotel under the name Costello — a tiny, private joke that would make him smile to himself. The staff would greet him with fondness, and he would greet them by name in return.

At the bar by the pool, the bar manager would tap the young woman on duty on the shoulder and send her to wait on other customers, while he would mix this cocktail without needing to be told.

“Long flight?” he’d ask the abbot. “You look like you could use this.”

“Bless you, Leo,” the abbot would say, with a look of relieved fondness on his face. “You, sir, are a saint.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Leo would say.

zero-proof breakfast cocktail

In Ian Fleming’s 1960 short story “Risico” spy James Bond is supposed to meet with another agent in a hotel bar. Never having met him, he is supposed to be on the lookout for a man drinking a Brandy Alexander. In an interior monologue, Bond is impressed by this detail. It is such a feminine drink, he thinks, that a man will be able to be recognized much better than he would be by holding a newspaper folded in a particular way or wearing a specific flower in his lapel.

As with many of the opinions expressed by the literary James Bond, this one hasn’t aged particularly well. Aside from some antiquated gender norming, Flemming missed a golden — and in hindsight obvious — opportunity. Brandy Alexander is a classic name for a female character in a Bond piece. Brandy would be beautiful of course, with dark hair cut startlingly (for Bond at least) short. She’d have a musical laugh and flashing dark eyes, and be an expert poker player and gifted butterfly collector. She would also be Europe’s most notorious cat burglar and jewel thief.

In the movie version she would be played by Audrey Hepburn and would have her own theme song, written by Henry Mancini.

At the end of the story, Bond would find himself with an attaché case notably empty of jewels, and a cheeky note dabbed with Brandy’s perfume, shaking his head and staring at her sports car disappearing into the distance.

Regardless of all that, Friday, Jan. 31 is National Brandy Alexander day, and we should celebrate with a cocktail, if not an actual jewel theft.

Brandy Alexander

1½ ounces brandy – some pedants will say it should be cognac, or brandy from a particular monastery in the mountains of Latvia, but let’s face it: you’re mixing it with crème de cacao – you’re probably not looking for subtle nuances here

1 ounce crème de cacao

¼ teaspoon unsweetened cocoa powder

1 ounce light cream or half & half

Ice

Combine the brandy, crème de cacao and cocoa powder in a cocktail shaker, and dry shake it for 30 seconds or so. This means without ice. The trouble-maker here is the cocoa powder. Cocoa is hydrophobic, meaning that it doesn’t like dissolving in water. If you tried to mix it with the other ingredients over ice, you’d end up with little clumps of cocoa stuck to the ice cubes, bringing the sophistication of the drink down by about 15 percent. If you shake it vigorously with liquor, however, it will mix in pretty well. Like many of us, it is easier to get along with after enthusiastic exposure to alcohol.

Add ice and cream to the mixture, and shake for another 30 seconds or so, then strain into a cocktail or coupe glass. If you judged your shaking right, there should be just a few tiny ice chips floating on the surface.

Ask your digital assistant to play the James Bond theme, and sip your Brandy Alexander to it. You won’t be sorry.

Unlike many cream-based cocktails, this isn’t overly sweet. There is some residual sweetness from the crème de cacao, but it is balanced by the bitterness of the cocoa powder and the richness of the cream. The brandy is able to stand proudly in the front of this jazz combo of a cocktail. It carries a caché of sophistication and inspires confidence.

zero-proof breakfast cocktail

3 ounces Ruby Red grapefruit juice

1 teaspoon dehydrated grapefruit juice powder – I use citrus powders to intensify fruit flavors in a recipe without throwing off the liquid ratios. This works really well in frostings and glazes. These powders can be found easily online. In this recipe, it’s optional, but really does dial up the level of grapefruitiness.

2 ounces alcohol-free gin – I used Free Spirits this time, and it provided a mellow backnote of juniper to the proceedings. Because it is alcohol-free, it too can be easily ordered online, or even found in some supermarkets.

¾ ounce honey syrup (see below)

1/8 teaspoon rose water

Pour the grapefruit juice into a cocktail shaker, then stir in the grapefruit powder with a bar spoon or a pair of chopsticks. Mix vigorously for 15 or 20 seconds to make certain that the powder has dissolved completely. Avoid ice for the moment; this won’t work as well in a cold solution.

Add the other ingredients, then dry shake them (this means to shake them without ice). Again, you are forcing an introduction here, and it will probably go better if the ingredients aren’t keeping to themselves in separate corners, wearing coats and huddling around radiators.

Once everything is well mixed, add ice, and shake it again. Strain into a coupé glass, and sip to some morning-themed music — Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man” or Nina Simone’s cover of “Here Comes the Sun,” perhaps.

Because there is no actual alcohol involved, this is a really good breakfast cocktail.

I know, that term hurts a little to think about, but because the “gin” here is just a flavoring agent, this drink can be a very nice start to your day. It’s pink, it’s fruity but also little bracing, and there is a hint of perfume at the very end. Grapefruit, like most citrus, pairs well with almost any other ingredient, and the tiny hit of juniper from the alcohol-free gin puts a thoughtful spin on the combination. This scales up beautifully to a pitcher drink.

If the idea of a breakfast cocktail is still a bit uncomfortable, imagine this:

A team of clients is in your conference room for an early morning presentation. Your team and their team have worked together before, and they’ve been happy with your work, but you’re still getting a sense of caution from them. You know that your presentation is solid, but you need them to approach it with an open mind.

After your assistant sets up the coffee and bagels on the table at the back of the room, she walks around the conference table, and places a coupe glass in each place, then fills each one halfway with this delicate pink cocktail from a martini pitcher. After your assurance that there is no alcohol involved, the senior member of the other team takes a tentative sip, pauses thoughtfully, then with one raised eyebrow takes a deeper sip and sighs, just a little, with pleasant surprise. The rest of the client team will take their cues from her, and a few minutes later that attitude of open-minded receptiveness will pay off when your slide presentation takes a turn to the unexpected, mixing sales charts with photos of armadillos and bagpipe music.

Honey Syrup

This is probably the easiest of syrups to make. Combine equal amounts of honey and boiling water, and stir to combine. Let it cool, then use for any number of beverages. The diluted honey will mix more readily with your tea or cocktail than it would at full strength. Mixed with plain club soda it makes an unexpected and delightful soda.

This recipe is adapted from one that was published in a Bacardi advertisement from 1976. It holds up.

• 1 cup (133 g) finely chopped roasted, salted pecans
• 1 box (375 g) yellow cake mix
• 1 3.4-ounce package instant vanilla pudding mix
• 4 eggs
• ½ cup (225 g) milk
• ½ cup (1 stick) butter
• ½ cup (225 g) dark or black rum

Preheat oven to 325°F.

In a small saucepan, brown the butter: Over low heat, melt the butter, and stir or swirl almost constantly until it turns brownish gold, a tawny color, not unlike a lion. Remove it from the heat, and let it cool to room temperature. Strain it to remove the milk solids you’ve so cleverly rendered out.

Use a large spoonful of butter to grease the inside of a Bundt pan. If you have experienced the heartbreak of a Bundt cake not coming cleanly out of its pan, and ripping itself into pieces; if you are intimidated by Bundt pans; if you have young children you do not want to expose to intemperate language — there is a solution: absurd amounts of butter. Wash your hands, and really slather the butter on, hitting every corner and crevice. Make certain you give special attention to the central column. If you feel like you have buttered it enough, you need to add more. Obsessive over-indulgence is the order of the day here.

Sprinkle your finely chopped pecans across the bottom of the Bundt pan. This will be the top of your cake.

In a large bowl, combine all the other ingredients, including your browned butter. Stir the mixture until there are no dry bits or lumps, then pour it into your waiting Bundt pan. Use a silicone spatula to transfer all of it.

Thump the pan on your countertop with authority. Give the cake batter a good, hard stare to let it know that you aren’t fooling around, then give it a couple more solid thumps. This will make sure that all the batter has been seated into your carefully buttered crevices.

(The pan’s crevices, that is. Yours are your own business, and beyond the purview of a cake recipe.)

Bake the cake for about an hour, or until the center reaches 200°F. Remove it from the oven and let it cool in the pan for 15 or 20 minutes.

Invert the cake onto a plate. I like to rise up on my toes, then jerk the pan and plate downward with some force. You should be rewarded with a soft thump.

Carefully remove the Bundt pan to make certain everything turned out well (literally, in this case), then replace the pan on the cake, and re-invert it, so that you are looking at the bottom of the cake.

With a wooden skewer, stab the cake 100 times, then set it aside while you make some rum syrup.

Rum Syrup

• ½ cup (1 stick) butter
• ¼ cup water
• 1 cup (198 g) sugar
• Another ½ cup (225 g) dark or black rum

In a small saucepan, probably the same one you used earlier, bring the butter, water and sugar to a boil. Boil it for another five minutes, then remove it from heat. Let it cool a few minutes, then stir in the rum.

Slowly pour about half the rum syrup over the cake. Give it a minute or two to absorb into the cake through all those holes you poked, then pour the rest of the syrup over it.

Set the cake aside for an hour or two to completely integrate the rum syrup, then re-re-invert it onto a serving plate.

Rum cake goes exceptionally well with not-very-sweet coffee or tea. The sweetness and moisture of the cake makes a clean contrast with a hot beverage. The rumminess makes a good contrast to the hard work and disappointment in your life.

Cranberry Margarita

Everything was quiet, mostly.

Very few houses are actually quiet at night. Every time the wind blows, a house will usually flex a little, settling in one direction with a creak or a soft cracking noise. But around 2:30 this morning, everything briefly went completely quiet. If there had been anybody still awake, the sudden, complete silence might have startled them. That’s one of the things science fiction generally messes up on; if you’re dealing with a temporal anomaly — and how could you not be, if you’re trying to visit more than two billion houses in a night — sound doesn’t know how to work under those conditions.

The Old Man came down the chimney, set his bag to one side. He looked at the stockings waiting for him, but out of habit, looked for the traditional milk and cookies. Instead, his eyes fell on a waiting tray table. Laid out carefully, there was a small dish of cocktail peanuts, a cocktail shaker, an ice bucket and a martini glass. The Old Man’s eyes sparkled as he used the tongs that Rachel always left for him — always had, since she was a college student — and dropped three ice cubes into the shaker and shook himself a cocktail.

He carefully strained it into the waiting glass, helped himself to a few peanuts for the salt, then with a sigh, took a grateful sip of his margarita, and set to filling the stockings with his unencumbered hand.

Some parents just get it.

Cranberry Margarita

2 ounces Blanco tequila – I like Hornitos

1 ounce fresh squeezed lime juice

¾ ounce homemade cranberry syrup (see below)

Combine all ingredients with ice in a cocktail shaker.

Shake this cocktail brutally, then strain into a coupé glass.

If you have something sweet and syrupy, you can almost certainly use it to make a pretty good margarita. Cranberry syrup takes things one step further, firmly into Delicious territory. Cranberry goes extremely well with lime. Both fruits are puckeringly sour and can stand up to the tequila’s assertiveness. The sweetness of the syrup mellows everything out and makes this smooth and very, very drinkable.

Cranberry Syrup Two Ways

Combine equal amounts (by weight) of frozen whole cranberries and white sugar in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat, crush berries, and allow to steep for 30 minutes. Strain and bottle.

or

Combine equal amounts (by volume) of unsweetened cranberry juice and white sugar in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil. Leave on a boil for 10 to 20 seconds to make sure the sugar is completely dissolved. Remove from heat. Allow to cool, then bottle.

Either version will be delicious — like grenadine with a better personality. The whole-fruit version will be a bit thicker, due to the pectin in the berries. The juice version will be a little thinner and clearer.

The story goes that everyone in Brazil drinks caipirinhas when it’s oppressively hot. And because Brazil is on the equator, it’s oppressively hot pretty much all the time.

The ingredients for a caipirinha couldn’t be simpler: a lime, sugar, and a couple ounces of a Brazilian alcohol called cachaça, a sort of cousin to white rum. Most rum is made from fermenting molasses, a byproduct of sugar production. Cachaça is made by fermenting unprocessed sugarcane juice. It tastes like a slightly sour, faintly musky rum. That sourness plays extremely well off crushed limes.

Because the caipirinha — which is apparently pronounced “kai·pr·ee·nyuh“ — is so entrenched in Brazilian culture, it has inspired strongly held beliefs and heated disagreements. One of the most strongly argued caipirinha disputes is whether it needs to be made with granulated sugar, as caipirinha purists insist, or if it can be made with sugar syrup, like 95 percent of the sweetened cocktails in the world.

Because of my deep commitment to world peace, I decided to try the two versions side by side.

Here is the classic recipe for a caipirinha:

• 1 lime, sliced into wedges
• 2 teaspoons table sugar
• 2 ounces cachaça – which is apparently pronounced “kuh-shah-sah,” which sounds like an obscure type of martial arts weapon. “This is no ordinary murder, Higgins; this man was killed by a cachaça.”

Muddle the lime wedges and sugar in the bottom of a cocktail shaker. There will be a lot of juice, so don’t smash the limes like you might normally with a muddler. Grind it down hard, for longer than you might normally, but make sure you don’t splash.

Add cachaça and ice, then stir thoroughly with a bar spoon and pour into a rocks glass. Some bartenders suggest garnishing it with a lime wheel, but there is so much lime in this drink already, that seems a bit like overkill.

The theory is that the sugar acts like an abrasive and helps strip citrus oil out of the lime peel. That seems unlikely; logic would suggest that the crushed lime produces so much acidic juice that the sugar is dissolved almost instantly and doesn’t have time to abrade anything. But let’s withhold judgment; sometimes Reality ignores Logic mercilessly.

OK, let’s set this aside and make a second caipirinha, with sugar syrup. Do everything the same, but add two teaspoons of simple syrup at the same time as the cachaça.

Crush, crush, crush, pour, pour, clink, clink, clink. Stir, stir. Pour/clink/gurgle. Let’s take a look at the two caipirinhas side by side.

They both look and smell delicious.

Taking a sip of the caipirinha made with syrup: **Raised eyebrows** This is a very solid cocktail. It’s a little sour and musky from the cachaça, just sweet enough, and a love letter to lime.

That’s going to be tough to beat. Let’s try the classic caipirinha: **Pupils dilate, ceiling opens up, the sound of angels singing fills the kitchen**

I realize that I’m still standing in my kitchen, but for just an instant I was sitting on a patio surrounded by tropical flowers while samba music played in the background.

The caipirinha made with sugar is better by several orders of magnitude. This is the real love letter to lime, written with a fountain pen, using sophisticated metaphors and a complex rhyme scheme. In comparison, the other one was a late-night text, asking, “U up?”

(I drank both versions, by the way; I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.)

I think I’ll open a summer-only pop-up bar called Cai-Piranha.

Featured Photo: Photo by John Fladd.